


Looked So Fine (I Just Had To Speak)

by svmadelyn



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Mpreg, an IN YOUR FACE romance, crackfic, crackfic with heart, when you take care of your equipment, your equipment takes care of you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-16 16:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13057914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/svmadelyn/pseuds/svmadelyn
Summary: Patrick Kane’s talking penis maintains a ‘to do’ list. It is as follows:1. Jonathan Toews





	1. You and I (We’re Going to Rise Again)

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: I called back to my fictional Smallville heritage on this one - remember Clark's talking penis??? I think his name was Richard. Anyway, I wrote 90 percent of this basically in one night. Over three years ago. Then I decided to finish it, because Tim’s story is one that needs to be told.
> 
> Thanks to: everyone who audienced/read this story for me along the way. It takes a village to find forever homes. Most especially thanks to ninjaboots for betaing. 
> 
> Warnings: Don’t read this in public, probably. I did bad things.

 

_March, 2014_

 

Eddies. Patrick frowns down at the water, because he’s pretty sure it’s making him think all these weird thoughts about - trying to paddle against the current, and how much easier it is to paddle when the course of the river is propelling you along, instead of fighting you every step of the way. There’s a metaphor that probably covers all the shit that Patrick’s thinking about right now. Maybe it’s something like - Patrick’s in this canoe, this canoe of _life_ , and normally the canoe’s like, red and all tricked out and hot shit, but sometimes it gets a hole in the bottom, and it takes so much work to keep it from going under, to stuff the hole, plug it up so it can do its job up and down the rapids.

He’s gone from the Conn Smythe, a second Cup, first star of the NHL for a couple months running to this: sitting in his buddy’s hot tub, stewing on failures. Failures and canoes.

He’d wanted to beat the crap out of all comers at the Olympics, but he shouldn’t have even bothered flying out in the first place. Who misses not one, but two penalty shots, _in the same game_? He’s pretty sure he cried on international television, but it’s all kind of a blur. He’d been thinking about his grandfather, and how badly he’d wanted to win this whole thing, and how half his reputation is built on coming through when the stakes are the highest, but he might as well have been wearing clown shoes instead of ice skates.

He’s had a couple weeks of distance from it all, and it still doesn’t sit right that a guy named _T.J._ was the only highlight of anything his team put out there.

"At least you were trying," had been the best that Jessica had come up with, about the U.S. efforts. "And, you know, Kesler, and Quick and I mean, there’s probably Korea, hopefully and - hey, so Backes found this great dog, I saw pictures. Let’s go meet him."

His mom’s face had just started twitching when she’d looked at Bylsma after the game with Canada. And then it hadn’t stopped, not through Finland, not while she was grimly petting the dog in Backes’ room, and not on the whole plane ride home, where Patrick’s pretty sure he didn’t see her without an uh, adult beverage in her hand for more than an hour during the fourteen hour flight. Jessica had texted him four days after she’d gotten back to Buffalo with: _Mom’s cheek is back to normal! Onward and upward Patty!!!!_

He may or may not have hugged Q when he’d walked back into practice. Q had thumped him on the back, and no words really needed to be said.

Patrick had sort of held out hope that he’d managed to leave all his shitass puck luck back in Russia, but no dice. He’s still sucking. He may never stop sucking. The canoe’s just gonna sink. Then his contract won’t be re-upped. Fuck it, if Chicago doesn’t want him, he’ll go to whoever gives him the most money, and then he’ll buy a basketball team when he retires. Hockey will be too painful.

It’s possible he’s getting a little heatstroke or something, from sitting in Johnny’s hot tub this long. It’s also possible he should put this bottle down. He puts the bottle down. He leans his head back and stares up at the sky. It could be one of the last times he looks out at the Chicago skyline from Johnny’s hot tub.

He starts thinking about South Park, and sing-songs: "Blame Canada!", maybe sends a little of the splash in Sharpy’s general direction when he kicks his feet out. He’s not singing the whole song or anything, just a tiny bit of the chorus. It gets him a concerned look from Johnny, and a little nod from Saader, but no one else appears to have even heard him. Sharpy’s half-asleep, looking all warm and easy and content with the world. Why is he such an asshole?

He picks the bottle back up. There’s just way too many deep thoughts going on in Johnny’s hot tub.

He starts paying more attention to the conversations around him - Saader and Crow and Seabs and Johnny are all talking about whether it’s better to add grapefruit in a smoothie before or after kale. What?

No. Patrick’s not leaving this, he decides, setting down his beer again. It tips over, because he slammed it down. Of course he’s not leaving, he’s just having drunk thoughts. He’ll stop being snakebit. He’ll play like one of the two highest paid players on the team should! Patrick’s going to get some fucking hockey tape and tape up his fucking canoe.

"Yeah!" Patrick says, sitting up, picking the beer up, taking a long, determined swig. Sharpy and Johnny peer at him strangely, but then Sharpy just rouses himself enough to flick water at him randomly, and Johnny looks curious.

Patrick’s life is _awesome_ , what is he even thinking about with all this? So maybe he’s missing an element or two right now. He’ll get it figured out. He’s Patrick Timothy Kane the Fucking Second; he’s going to - he’s going to _own_. He’s going to own this fucking canoe. He’s going to upgrade to a Jet Ski. He’s going to -

"I thought Dayna said you were going to need to help with dinner tonight?" Johnny asks Seabs, reaching around blindly for another beer. Johnny keeps flopping his hand around and getting nothing, so he finally looks over his shoulder. The cooler has managed to slide a little ways from the hot tub, so Johnny has to halfway get out of the water, and he looks pretty resentful over it. He rummages noisily through the melted ice, his huge stupid ass wriggling around the edge of the tub while he tries to find a bottle that appeals. Patrick would kick him if he were inclined to actually move, and wasn’t so far away. He’d probably just hurt his foot or some shit though - it’d bounce right off him. He’d be out of the playoffs, taken down by Johnny’s fat ass. He’s snickering a little at the imagery, and Sharpy kicks at him, apparently on principle.

"Did she?" Seabs says, brows furrowing a bit. "Guess I'll head out," he shrugs, and even though he stands slowly, there's still a couple of waves that make their way up to Patrick's chin. He tips his head back lazily, keeping his head above the water, closing his eyes.

Saader starts back up where they'd left off in the conversation - something about beer and cheese flights, but then Johnny interrupts with: "Hey bud, you should probably go home, ice that elbow for tomorrow."

Patrick slits his eyelids back open, and sees Saader absently rubbing at his arm. He'd taken a puck to it last game; Johnny always keeps track of shit like that.  

"It's all right, Johnny," Saader says. "So then they laid out this brie, right? Or at least I thought it was brie, but it wasn't. It was the worst thing I've ever tasted. I don't even think it was cheese."

"Saader, elbow," Johnny says, only this time, he's eying Saader a little disapprovingly. The tiniest whiff that Johnny might be unhappy gets Saader up and out of the tub like bats from hell are chasing him, and the guys all wave him off. Patrick manages an arm flop out of the water, and nudges Sharpy with his toes while he's at it.

"Ugh," Sharpy says, but he doesn't even bother kicking back. Johnny narrows his eyes at both of them, but they're behaving, okay. No crazy splash wars are about to happen here, not this time, especially after the tirade Johnny had thrown after they'd gotten Johnny's floor soaked after the last one, which had involved Sharpy viciously holding Patrick under the water until Patrick had finally had to punch him in the junk to get him to let go already.

It falls quiet for a few minutes, and Patrick's sunglasses are sliding off his nose, but he's not even in the mood to move enough to adjust them.

"Gonna head out," Crow says suddenly. "Sharpy, you want a ride?"  
  
"Nah, I'm staying forever," Sharpy drawls.

"Ditto," Patrick says and nods a goodbye over to Crow while he makes his way out of the tub. "You're just trying to last long enough for Abby to have to handle feeding the girls dinner on her own, you ass," he accuses Sharpy. "If I had an Abby, I'd treat her way righter than you."  
  
"And yet, you don't have an Abby," Sharpy says, kicking out at Patrick with a little bit more force behind it now. "So I must be doing something right."

"Yeah, keeping her too exhausted to leave you," Johnny comments, sugary sweet. Patrick nods, hums a little in agreement.

"I handled lunch!" Sharpy moans. "There was food everywhere. There's always food everywhere."  
  
"How's that any different from when you're eating dinner on your own?" Johnny asks.

"What's that sound?" Sharpy asks Patrick. "That tiny chirping sound? Like a little baby sparrow?"

"I bet Abby'd appreciate a better class of Patrick," Patrick muses. "A less lazy one."

"Stop guilting me," Sharpy complains, completely whining.

"Oh yeah, it's really awful that you have to go home to your hot wife and your perfect daughters and your - shit, it's Tuesday, she's making you that primavera with prosciutto," Patrick says, mouth watering more than a little. "I'll go if you don't want to."

"I'm going, I'm going," Sharpy says, but when he gets up, he stands over Patrick and wrings his shorts out over Patrick's face. Patrick kicks him in the ass when he starts to move away and sends him stumbling out of the tub. No damage inflicted on Patrick’s foot with that one; Sharpy just doesn’t have nearly as much going on downstairs as their captain. Johnny's cracking up across from him, tipping his beer in a mocking toast.

"Enjoy your night," Sharpy calls. "I hope you both get fucking hot tub rashes."

"Let’s start in on some water?" Johnny offers, already wading over with a bottle in his hand.

"Don't mind if I do," Patrick says cheerfully, and pitches his sunglasses behind him. They're useless now that Sharpy's gotten them all wet, and the closest towel is at least three feet away. It's not going to happen. It's actually already getting dark out; who knows how long he's been wearing them with no sun to warrant it.

Johnny hands over the bottle and settles in next to Patrick, sinking back down into the water with a soft sigh. "Nice night, huh?" Johnny asks, tilting his chin out a bit at the skyline. Johnny has a perfect view from both sides of his condo, and they're facing Navy Pier and the lake right now.

"Yep," Patrick says agreeably. They sit contentedly for a while, the only sounds around them being the hot tub jets and the occasional swallows of the fancy water Johnny likes. Patrick's starting to think about getting out of the tub. He's getting a little bit of a boner from all the hot water and relaxation, and taking care of that is starting to take priority over never moving from this spot. At least the only trunks left in Johnny's supply had been an extra pair of Johnny's own, so he's not exactly being confined here.

"What do you want to get for dinner?" Johnny asks, a few minutes after Patrick had started seriously entertaining the thought of getting out of the water. "I'm not in the mood for anything in particular, so you pick."

"Sushi," Patrick says immediately, opening his eyes, and has to move his head back a little. Johnny’s right up in his face, looking straight at him, his huge brown eyes all evaluative, probably trying to figure out where Patrick wants to go, or if he wants to order out. When Patrick blinks at him sleepily, Johnny must realize he’s a little closer than he needs to be, since he draws back himself, settles up against the side of the tub.

"Wait, it's Tuesday," Patrick realizes anew.  
  
"Yeah?" Johnny's all spread out and relaxed now, arms extended out along the top of the tub, one arm loose behind Patrick’s shoulders, like he owns the joint - which, well, he does.  
  
"Shit, I've got a date," he says, sitting upright. Johnny's fingers move a little along his shoulder, and he sits up straighter now himself.

"A date?" Johnny asks, and he sounds as surprised by it as Patrick is at realizing that he’d almost forgotten it entirely. He'd met Jenna while he was picking up some take-out, and, well, she'd invited him to her place, but he'd had practice, so he'd invited her to dinner instead.

He's reasonably confident that the invite to her place will still be on the table after dinner, and he's sitting here getting hard in a hot tub with only his bro around. He’s getting a hard-on around _Johnny_ of all people; clearly that’s a sign he’s got some needs that need tending to.

He slaps Johnny on the back apologetically and says, "Looks like it’s just you for dinner tonight, man, I’m already running late." He heaves himself out of the tub, still a little reluctant, despite the nice night that’s waiting for him outside Johnny’s condo. He wraps one of the huge towels around himself and putters around, gathering up his shit, like his sunglasses and his cap. He picks up a few of the stray bottles along the way out of old habit and pitches them in a random stray Walgreens bag. Johnny’s still in the tub, but after he’s watched Patrick get stuff cleaned up a little bit, he sighs and climbs out. Patrick can’t help but notice that Johnny’s sporting a similar boner, so at least he hadn’t been alone in the effects of all that warm water. His swimming trunks are plastered against his body; there’s no way not to notice something like that. Johnny pads down the couple of steps of the jacuzzi, onto the deck, and finishes helping Patrick clean up.

Patrick tosses the garbage in the right recycling sections, he doesn’t have time for yet another lecture about how the earth’s going under, and then pokes at Johnny’s coffee maker - he should probably be a little more sober going into this date. He throws himself into a cold shower just to rinse off and get his dick under control. He swings back through Johnny’s kitchen, grabs his now-ready coffee, and starts drinking. He rummages through Johnny’s colognes and finds his favorite, adds a little spritz in case Jenna’s the kind of girl who doesn’t like strong smells. The shirt he’d worn here is fine, and so are his pants, but he’s going to need a suit jacket. He heads into Johnny’s closet and starts rifling through the options. There’s a dark blue one in here somewhere that Johnny hardly ever wears, but he always manages to look decent in it, so Patrick figures he’ll look even better, if he can just find - fuck yeah. He pulls it off the hanger.

"By all means, help yourself," Johnny says, gesturing with his fingers, beer bottle still in hand, a towel draped around his hips. He’s tugging a huge fluffy robe off of a chair and wraps it around himself, rolling his hips a little. The towel drops to the floor. Johnny, of course, leaves it there right there, the fuck.

"I’ll get it dry cleaned," Patrick says, rolling his eyes. Johnny’s pretty touchy about his nice clothes. This one should be alright, he thinks, shrugging into it in front of Johnny’s mirror. It’s a little snug around his shoulders, but the whole look works overall. He works Johnny’s clothes way better than the man himself.

"Thanks," he says breezily, clasping Johnny’s shoulder for a second as he moves past.

"Wait, you actually have a date?" Johnny asks, trailing behind while Patrick tugs on his shoes.

The amount of surprise in Johnny’s voice is completely disproportionate to the subject at hand, Patrick thinks.

"Isn't that what I just said?" Patrick says. "Keep up. But seriously, thanks for the assist," he says, tugging on his jacket. He punches Johnny lightly on his bicep: "I’ll think of you later, if you know what I mean," he snickers. Well, that came out kind of weird, but whatever. Johnny knows where he was going with that.

Johnny just glares at him for a moment, and heaves himself onto his chair. He looks so comfy - huge ass robe with his knees spread and feet planted widely, that Patrick has a fleeting moment of wanting to just - stay, hang out. Johnny’s got a couple of those huge stupid robes; Patrick could pull one on and he could call it a night on the couch; they could have someone bring food to them and everything.

But there’s like - an 88% chance of him getting laid tonight, and it’s a hard call, but he’s got to come down on the side of his dick, so he heads out.

*

Jenna’s probably the hottest girl he's slept with in at least two years. It'll be hard to top Bianca in Calgary, who is kind of his golden standard at this point, but Patrick is definitely willing to keep plugging away at it, for however long it takes.

He's already made her come; he takes pride in his work, okay. If he winds up on Deadspin again, it's not going to be because he's a shitty lay. So he's getting the condom on, but his dick is...

Twitching. Like, 'actively moving around in his hand, possessed by spirits' twitching.

"Do it," Jenna breathes, laid out on the mattress in front of him. She has cute underwear with bows and tiny polka dots around her ankles now, and Patrick is _trying_.

He just can't get the damn condom on. He sort of wrestles with his dick for a second, but it's like it ducks out of the way of the condom. He stares, getting a little concerned, because this shit isn't normal, and great, it's exactly what he needs in his life right now. Problems with his penis.

"What’s up?" she asks finally.

Not his dick, that’s for sure, he thinks, mystified. It finally stops jerking around, and Patrick sighs, relieved. He didn't have nearly enough to drink today to explain whatever the fuck that was. He shakes his head and starts getting the condom on, but her fingers reach in around his, and she smiles lightly, starting to tug it on, and he goes soft.

He’s soft in two seconds flat. Like his penis is a balloon, and it's been stuck with a pin. It's almost as traumatizing as that would be too.

"Um," Patrick says.

She looks a little confused. "Uh, okay," she says, drawing her hands back.

"No, look, it's, I don't know what that is, but it's not you," Patrick says, but she rolls her eyes, reaches down, and starts giving him a hand job, maybe more than a little aggressively now.

_Nothing happens._

"I'm going to go," she says, after two minutes of alternating between rubbing him like a cat, and palming him so tight that it's - look, he likes a little rough play as much as anybody, but it's his _dick_ and, and she could stand to be a little more careful, because it's really a very valued and beloved part of him.

"Yeah, okay," he says miserably, but mostly relieved because he's a little scared of how hard she'll squeeze if she gets even more offended at the inaction going on down there.

He watches wordlessly as she gets dressed and lets herself out. He hears his front door slam, and he falls onto his back on the bed, seriously baffled. This has never happened to him. A lot of things have happened with his dick. It's been a lot of places, it has seen a lot of things, but this is definitely new.

"Fuckin’ _ow_ ," someone says.

Patrick sits up and looks around wildly. What the hell was that?

"Down here," the voice says, and Patrick flails around his bed, throwing the pillows across his bedroom, searching.

"No, _here_ , dumbass," the voice says, sounding impatient now. "Follow the sound of my voice. There we go."

Patrick shrieks, and puts the last pillow on his bed over his waist, because -

Because -

The voice had been coming _from his dick_.

"That maturity thing’s still a work in progress, eh?" the voice says, muffled.

Maybe he's been drugged. He presses the pillow up against his groin more tightly.

"I'm still here," the voice says, sounding put-upon, but when Patrick doesn’t say anything, only manages a low, cut-off whimper, it somehow gentles. "It's okay. Let's just talk. Take the pillow off, Pat. Let's have it out."

Patrick removes the pillow slowly.

"Hi. Hey. Hello," his penis says. It doesn't... _say_ it, not exactly. It's just a voice.

Coming from inside his penis. Because his penis is talking to him.

Maybe it's those painkillers he took this morning. But he's taken them several times, and there's never been any side-effects.

He had mushrooms in a sauce at dinner earlier tonight, while he'd been out on his date. Mushrooms can go bad, right? He's heard of that.

The point is, there are a ton of explanations that absolutely cover why Patrick is hallucinating that his dick is talking to him.

"Uh," Patrick says. His dick is sort of at half-mast, like it's sitting up. So that it can talk to him.

He lays back down and covers his own face with the pillow.

"Look, I got all day. You take as much time as you need here. You're not boring me at all."

"Oh my _God_ ," Patrick hisses, flinging the pillow to his side. "What the hell is going on?"

"I think that's fairly obvious. We need to have a conversation, because you've been making some choices in your life, and I don't think you've considered all the angles."

"Angles?" Patrick parrots inanely.

"Nobody's been doing it for you, have they? I don't even know how I manage to get it up some nights. Maybe it's because I try to take some pride in my work. Maybe I’m just brave. But it doesn't even matter, because you're unhappy."

Patrick's so not unhappy. He's not like, purely joyous or anything, but he's not _unhappy_. He says as much.

"I'm not a reporter. You don't have to give me the canned answer," his dick says, and it's like it's trying to actually sound soothing. "It's only you and me here. This is a safe place."

"I'm not unhappy!" Patrick protests again. "I mean, yeah, things could be better. I could score some fucking goals." Shit, he doesn’t even want to get started with Sochi; he’s mostly been pretending that Bobby Ryan had gone instead. "It's been a rough year and we're only three months in, so what?"

"It's been longer than that," his penis says. "You're frustrating me, is the thing."

"I'm - what?" Patrick says. "You're my _fucking dick_." How does a penis even get frustrated, unless you’re like, old or something?

"Call me Tim. It's a little weird if you're just calling me 'penis' or 'dick' or ‘knob’ or ‘the truth’ or whatever, you know? But anyway, yeah. You're not living your best life. That means that I'm not living my best life. So of course I'm a little ticked at you. Not _you_ , not exactly, don't feel bad, I know you try hard. I'm more angry at the _situation_. I'm angry at the life you're choosing to live."

"The truth?" Patrick repeats.

"Yeah, you know. You can’t HANDLE the truth," his dick says. "It’d be cool if someone called me that, I’m just saying."

"Tim?" Patrick asks.

"Yeah, it's a good a name as any. I mean, I don't like the Tiny Tim association, but you and I both know that's not true. Am I right or am I right?" His penis chuckles warmly. "We’re a shower _and_ a grower."

Patrick presses the palm of his hand to his own forehead. He doesn't feel like he's got a fever or anything.

"You're angry with me. My penis is angry with me," Patrick says flatly.

" _Tim_ , fuck you. You're so close. Do you have any idea how nuts that drives me?"

"How can it drive you nuts? _You're_ my nuts!" Patrick yells.

"I just want us to have nice things, okay? You know what's nice?"

"It was pretty nice when my junk didn't talk to me," Patrick says. "I didn't appreciate those days the way that I should have at all."

"Johnny," his dick - _Tim_ \- says.

"Johnny? What about him?" Patrick repeats.

"Johnny. Johnny's nice," Tim says, so softly that Patrick has to strain to hear it.

Patrick stares down at his dick for a moment, and then he knows exactly what to do. He hops off the bed, runs to the bathroom, and turns his rainfall showerhead to its highest pressure setting, and gets it as cold as he can stand. He gets in under the spray, shivering within seconds.

"Are you trying to fuckin’ drown me?" Tim asks, after a few moments of silence where Patrick has hope. He sounds...disappointed. Patrick’s talking penis sounds disappointed in him.

"You've taken thousands of showers," Tim says. "I'm still here. Obviously you wouldn’t want me gone entirely." When Patrick doesn’t respond, Tim says, all quiet and concerned sounding: "Right, buddy?"

Patrick sits down hard on the shower floor. At least he can't really feel the cold anymore.

"But back to Johnny," Tim says.

"What about Johnny?" Patrick asks, staring straight ahead at his bathroom tile. He refuses to look down. He absolutely refuses.

"Where do I even start with Johnny," Tim...sighs. His fucking talking penis sighs. "How come you've never gotten in there?"

"Gotten in where?" Patrick asks blankly.

"I wish I could draw," Tim says, with not a little malice. It startles Patrick a bit, and he flinches underneath the spray of the water. "I'd draw you a map. The map would lead to his ass. You've seen that ass. You've roomed with him. You're around it almost every day! How do you even stand it?"

"Stand what?" Patrick asks.

"It's right in front of you! It's all right in front of you! It's like one of those pigs rotating on a spit over and over and over! It’s on a silver fucking platter! You're the dumbest person alive!"

"Hey, shut the hell up," Patrick says feelingly.

"No, you!" Tim protests, and oh, great, he's like, jerking around wildly again. It's uncomfortable and surreal, as though someone's using his penis as a Wii controller. "You haven't had a really fun orgasm in over two years and you're telling me to shut up? I shouldn't even be giving you the time of day."

"Not everybody can be Bianca in Calgary," Patrick snaps.

"Bianca in Calgary with her strap-on? Have you thought about the strap-on? Because I've thought about the strap-on."

"It was just a thing," Patrick says feebly, after a minute where he toys around with the soap and washes his feet while he’s down there. "She wanted to try it. It was weird."

"The only part that was weird was how much you liked it and didn't come back to it. You like something that much and then you never try it again? You're fuckin’ repressed."

"I am not repressed. Repressing what?" Patrick says, and shit, he's looking down. He averts his eyes again, this time fixing on his bathroom sink.

"There's a lot of cute people in the world, you know? And some of them are dudes. You look at 'em sometimes! I notice these things. You're a little gay," Tim says, sounding like he’d be shrugging, if he could. If he weren’t a penis. "You could be a lot gay though. With Johnny. I think you should be a lot gay. With Johnny."

The shower obviously isn't working, so Patrick pushes himself up over to the knobs and shuts off the water. He reaches for a towel, but Tim interjects.

"Not that one. The peshtemal towel," Tim says firmly.

Patrick's hand hovers over his towel stack. "The what?"

"The blue one, with the stripes. It's softest and I like it. Hey, while we’re talking about this, I think you should get a towel warmer. That sounds like it’d be nice. But, I mean, be careful with it. I like warm, but not too warm, and those things can get hot. You gotta be careful with the goods here."

Patrick sets his jaw, and reaches into the stack of towels, pulling out the giant Turkish towel he'd gotten on a whim a year or so back.

"Yeah, that's it," Tim says, voice a little lower, when Patrick wraps it around his waist. "That's the good stuff. Hey, you know what else is good? Johnny."

Patrick goes over to his sink, grabs his toothpaste and spreads it on his electric toothbrush's bristles. He turns the toothbrush to its highest clean setting, in the hopes it'll drown out Tim.

No such luck. "He's good at hockey! Remember that Stadium Series goal through the neutral zone? Slipped the puck right between Fleury's legs. We had feelings about that, remember?"

Patrick makes sure to get the back of his teeth, a nice, thorough deep cleaning. Sometimes he forgets.

"He's smart too," Tim continues, ignoring the fact that Patrick's ignoring him. "He has interesting opinions. He's wrong a lot, sure, but at least he can defend 'em."

Patrick finds himself nodding, agreeing, and snaps out of it.

"He’s all domestic and shit! You know he’s got that garden now. He brought you baskets of fucking cucumbers all last summer. Do you know what it means when a man brings another man baskets of cucumbers? It’s a _declaration_ , Pat."

A declaration? The only declarations Patrick knows are ones of Independence. What the -

"And he's funny! Not ha-ha funny, but deep funny. Have you noticed how you laugh at his jokes? They’re bad jokes, Pat. But you laugh. Doesn’t that tell you something?  The guy gives good smile too. You know, that stupid smile he has, where he ducks his head and looks shy? Like a Canadian farmer or some shit?"

Patrick realizes that he's smiling kind of dopily in the mirror, foamy mouth and all. He scowls and spits out his toothpaste and shuts off the toothbrush, but of course his dick had noticed.  
  
"Aw yeah, that's it, you know the one," Tim sighs.

He grabs a glass of water and rinses his mouth furiously.

"He smiles at you all the fucking time. You could smile back some more. It wouldn’t kill you; your mother raised you better than that."

Patrick sets down the glass, shuts off the light and heads back into his bedroom. He looks at his bookshelf. He's in the mood for an actual book to read, not an e-book. He's just not going to say anything at all. If he can just keep on ignoring his penis, it will go away. Not go _away_ away, obviously, he clarifies mentally. It's important to be specific when visualizing.  

"He’s just a very well-put together individual on many fronts; that’s all I’m trying to tell you. He walks around looking damn good, and I know you’ve noticed. Bow chicka wow wow - or should I say bow Sochi wow wow now?"

Patrick, for the first time in his life, probably, doesn't have anything to say.

"Hey, yeah, pretend I didn't say that last part there. I'm embarrassed; that was awkward. I'm an extension of your innermost thoughts, but that wasn't right for me to say. You have lines, and I understand them, and what's more, I respect them," Tim says. "There were a lot of fucking lows in Sochi, man, and that one's right up there, I feel you."

"If you like him so much, why don't you marry him!" Patrick bites out, ignoring - his dick is _Patrick's_ innermost thoughts? As fucking _if_. He also ignores all mentions of Sochi, as he is wont to do, and oh, that was stupid for him to say.

He fully expects Tim to say something along the lines of putting the cart before the horse, but it turns out his dick is just full of even more surprises tonight.

"I'm attached to you," Tim says. "You’re the one holding this up. The Fault In Our Stars? That's what you're going with here? Jesus."

"Jackie liked it," Patrick snaps, and settles into bed with his book.

"Oh well, if Jackie liked it, sure, let's read the depressing book where somebody probably dies. They probably both die, and then where are you going to be? Oh yeah, you're going to be sniffling in your bed at nine at night because of a freaking YA novel, all alone. Again," Tim says.

"You seriously need to stop talking," Patrick grits out, turning to the first page determinedly. He doesn’t bring up the fact that they could be doing other things with a pretty girl in her pretty underwear. Tim knows what he did.

There's silence for a whole thirty seconds, but then: "BT dubs, I've been meaning to thank you for not taking that girl back to your hotel room in Dallas. That situation had gonorrhea written all over it. I mean, I still don't get how you're clean, but I'm not asking any questions."

Patrick’s kind of nodding to himself, because yeah, he hadn’t been sure why he’d turned her down. She was funny, she’d done the hair twirl around her finger thing, it was clearly on if he’d just gotten up from the bar. It’s not exactly something he makes a habit of; rejecting invites like that. Maybe he has some sixth sense about STDs. He’s always wanted a superpower.

"Hey, I have this idea though. Hear me out, yeah? What if you decided to go for a monogamous relationship, and quit while you're ahead? I'm just saying, it's something to think about."

Patrick has read the same line probably about seven times now. He is still not sure what it says.

"Is it so wrong to want a forever home?" Tim asks and his tone is so full of this strange, awful longing that it takes a moment for Patrick to even register the words. Tim makes an encouraging sounding little noise, like he’s waiting for an actual response or some shit, but - Patrick has no clue where to even begin with that. "Fine, you're sensitive, I know," Tim says while Patrick occupies himself by staring at his walk-in closet, where he'd forgotten to shut off the light. "I'll let you stew on things for a little bit. Don't want to tax you. You think about what I've said. We’ve grown up a lot together. I've led you astray sometimes in the past, sure, but I'm here to make some amends."

Patrick shakes himself out of the traumatized stupor the last few minutes have brought on, and turns to the next page in the book. He hadn't really even taken in the words on the first one, but he’s trying to prove a point here, and it’s that he's _ignoring all of this._

*

Patrick wakes up hoping  there's no random NHL mandated drug tests today, because who even knows what they could find in his system right now.

His dick doesn't speak to him all morning though.

He undresses faster than he ever has in his life during practice, all the same.

His dick doesn't speak to him while he's getting dressed after practice either, and Patrick's starting to breathe a little easier. It was obviously the mushrooms from last night. Chicago Cut had clearly purchased some whack mushrooms.

"Hey, want to grab a sandwich?" Johnny asks, his hand on Patrick's shoulder, clearly trying to get his attention. Patrick flinches, and looks down at his dick, alarmed. There's no reaction or anything, and he has pants on. It's fine. It's okay. Everything's a-okay here.

Johnny's hand is hovering mid-air, and he's staring at him. "Uh, Kaner?" Johnny's hand drops.

"Yeah, sandwich sounds good," Patrick says.

"Okay," Johnny says, and they don’t say too much of anything on the drive over to the shop, and Johnny waves Patrick up to the counter to order for them both while he goes and gets their booth in the corner. It’s Wednesday, so Johnny will want the turkey with avocado, which Patrick orders, and has them add a little of the pesto mayo ‘cause Johnny never orders it for himself, but he likes it.

"So, hey, how’d your date go?" is the first thing Johnny says when Patrick sets their tray down.

"Date?" Patrick parrots, sliding into the booth.

Johnny’s eyes go a little weird. "Yeah," he says slowly. "The date you left me - the date you left my apartment for last night."

"Yeah," Patrick says. "Unexpected."

"What part of it?"

"Whole damn thing," Patrick muses, finally picking up his overflowing sandwich.

"Like...good unexpected? Bad unexpected? You goin’ out again?"

Patrick takes too big a bite of his sandwich; it goes down wrong, and a tomato plops down onto the waxed paper. "Nah," he manages to cough.

Johnny falls silent for a moment, but then: "So you didn’t like her?"

"She was _fine_ , anybody who says different should probably get their...whatever, examined," Patrick says, to every fucking body here at this table.

"Their…" Johnny rolls his eyes and tucks into his sandwich, thankfully foregoing any other conversation. Nothing else happens while they're eating. At least, nothing as far as his dick is concerned. Johnny gets a little of the pesto mayo on his cheek, and Patrick thinks about licking it off.

Not wiping it off. But licking it off. He stares down at his own BLT, confused. He imagines what it'd be like, his tongue flat up against Johnny's cheek, still warm and flushed from practice; he could run the tip of it down the lines of Johnny's thick throat, working his way down to that mole on the side of his neck and -

Johnny's snapping his fingers in front of Patrick's face. "Are you coming down with something?" Johnny demands. "You're sweating."

"Yeah, what, of course," Patrick says.

"Yes, you're coming down with something?" Johnny looks concerned.  

"No, this is all Tim's fault," Patrick says, getting up quickly, and throwing down his napkin. "See you around, good lunch." Tim planted strange fucking seeds, and that's the only reason he's even thinking about this. Why would he think about Johnny's throat? It's insane.

"Who's Tim? Kaner, we came in my car, hold up," Johnny says, scrambling out of his chair to catch up to Patrick.

Patrick folds his arms over his chest and waits until he hears the click of Johnny's doors unlocking.

"Is something going on with you?" Johnny asks quietly, after they've driven in silence for a few minutes.

"I'm snakebit," Patrick mutters, focusing on the thing he can talk about without winding up like, medicated in a room or something. He fiddles with the button for the power window, but stops messing with it almost immediately, since it’s freaking cold outside. "We all know it, and it'll end when it ends. It happens." He just really hates it when he goes through goal droughts like this. He'd had a baller first half of the season, and now he's lucky if he gets an assist most nights.

"Yeah, it will," Johnny says encouragingly. "It's cyclic, we both know it. You'll get some garbage goal soon and it'll release the floodgates, right in time for playoffs. I'm not worried at all."

Patrick nods, and makes himself put his hands in his lap, so he’s not tempted by the power window again.

"Is that the only thing getting you down though?" Johnny asks tentatively.

Patrick hasn't had a great orgasm in two years, and it's because none of the girls he was with were wearing strap-ons. That's apparently a thing, if his penis is to be believed.

"Johnny," Tim hisses lowly.

"Patrick?" Johnny asks.

"No!" Patrick shouts, and turns the radio on, cranking the volume way, way up, the bass hard enough to practically deafen them.

Johnny looks over disbelievingly at Patrick, lowering the volume immediately.

"Yeah, I think I’m gonna walk. Let me out," Patrick says.

"I've almost got you home," Johnny says, but they're at a stoplight, and Patrick scrambles out of the car.

"See you tonight, Johnny," Patrick says, slamming the door in Johnny's frowning face, and then he almost gets hit by a car since he's in the middle of the street.

Johnny bangs on his horn, and he looks riled; he's motioning at Patrick to get back in. Patrick finally gets off the street, and he waves over at Johnny while he stands awkwardly on next to the curb. Johnny has to drive off; there's too many cars honking at him now, but Patrick's pretty sure he'll circle the block, wanting to know what the hell that was.

Patrick ducks into a Starbucks and gets an iced black tea, and sits in a corner far away from the windows. There's already a missed text from Johnny:

_wtf_

Patrick responds with: _sorry was gonna puke, didn't want to get it in your car. fine now, see you later_

_I can come by? I don't see you walking_

Patrick smiles despite himself. Johnny's actually just - he's a nice guy, when he wants to be.

 _no, i'm good. but thanks_ he responds back with, and sips his tea, settling back into the soft, cushy chair.

"That was sad," Tim comments. "I'm sad for you."

There's no one sitting nearby, so Patrick calmly presses his cold plastic cup into his lap.

"Wow," Tim says, jerking a little bit against Patrick’s thigh. "You petty friggin’ asshole."

It's more than a little uncomfortable, so Patrick lifts the cup to his lips, sipping, hoping he got his point across. He finishes off the tea without any commentary from his dick, and Tim's silent treatment continues the whole walk home, so at least Patrick has that going for him.

"But why not Johnny?" Tim asks, the second Patrick walks through his front door.

Patrick doesn’t even know how to respond anymore.

*

Patrick looks at his phone; it's Erica calling. For probably the first time in his life, he ignores a call from one of his sisters. The reason is right there in his lap. He can't talk to his sister when his dick is talking to him. It's just, he can't.

"Hey, while you have your phone, take a selfie of me! You never take those anymore. I miss them," Tim says.

"That's because it's fucking stupid to take pictures of your dick and text them. Anyone could get ahold of it," Patrick says. "I thought you said you’d grown up some," he points out.

"As if you have anything to be ashamed about. Come on, selfie! Try and get my right side. It has a better profile, especially in this lighting."  
  
"What, and send it to Johnny?" Patrick rolls his eyes.

"Whoa, whoa, buddy boy, what is that?" Tim asks.

"What's what?" Patrick asks. He's starting to get a headache. It's possible that his penis is making him think too hard, and that thought makes his brain hurt even more.  
  
"That was a brain wave. That was two brain cells talking to each other right there. Look at those wheels just churning away. This is exciting, Pat. Are you excited? I'm excited."

There's another part of all of this that Patrick's more than a little stuck on, and he's not sure why Tim isn't getting it. "I've never done a dude. There would be a second penis involved. It's a big deal! Besides, you might be having - having _feelings_ about Johnny, but that doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean he has any feelings back."

"How could he not? You're banging! You're hot shit out there on the ice. You look good! You've grown into your facial features and everything. You're growing up and doing great and that guy's smart enough to know it and want in on that action. You just gotta show some interest, step up your game, and you'd have this in the bag. You’re a superstar, kid."

"Oh, well, if _you_ think so," Patrick sighs, but he can't help but be a little flattered. Those are nice things to hear sometimes, no matter the source.

"What's so wrong about two dicks?" Tim continues. "You've always liked me. It's like two of me, and you should be into that."

"You - _we_ like girls. Women. We've always liked ladies," Patrick says.

"Who doesn't! Ladies are great, and you know I've enjoyed our times together. Remember that vag that smelled like vanilla? How do girls even _do_ that? But you know what's also great?"  
  
"Johnny?" Upsettingly, it doesn't come out nearly as sarcastically as Patrick had intended.

" _Joh_ \- yeah, that's right," Tim says.

Patrick pulls his leg up and rolls the sock off of his left foot. He jams it over his dick, more than a little viciously. It's thick and fuzzy with purple stripes. It makes his penis look even more demented than it sounds, and it sounds pretty damn demented.

"I could talk to you about better ways to muffle a dick, Pat. You know, hard to hear ‘em when they’re properly _inserted_ , if you catch my drift. Especially if they were in something with some padding, with all that good insulation. But I’m getting the sense you don’t want to talk to me just now, and this is me stopping. This is me respecting your limitations, because you and me, we’re on the same side here, whether you believe it or not."

Patrick manages to snap out of his momentary stupor at all of - insulation? Johnny’s...insu - Jesus. He reaches over to his nightstand and grabs his iPod so that he doesn't have to hear any more of this.

Just before he thumbs it on, he hears Tim say: "You need to develop better coping mechanisms."

*

 _Why not Johnny?_ rings through Patrick's head all during the game that night.

Every time Johnny steps out onto the ice, it's like this chorus in his mind. Johnny has a stupidly good game that night - an assist, a goal, and he strips the puck twice in the other team's end in the first period. He wins every single faceoff he has for the second period.

Patrick, meanwhile, manages an assist, a hard-on, and is ridiculously tense for the entire third period of the game. His line’s up against Corey Perry for a couple of shifts, and Tim yells, "Hey fuckface, you’re a dick, and trust me, I’d know!" but Perry’s probably a little too far up the ice for him to figure out where the voice was coming from. Besides, it’s nothing that isn’t true. It’s something he’d yell himself, but he’d like to think he’d get a little more creative in the phrasing.

He keeps his gear on, puts his gloves over his dick, remains seated the whole time when the media comes over to his stall after the game finally, mercifully ends, and prays silently, desperately. Then, thank Jesus, it's time to shower and go home. He and Johnny tend to be two of the last ones out, and tonight is no different. Patrick hates skipping his shower; he doesn't like feeling gross on the drive home, but there's no way he's going into the shower with - with Tim and Johnny and -

"Don't even think about it," Tim says. "You're taking a shower. Everything's way normal, we're cool, nothing to see here. Oh my God, Ohmigod, OMG, Johnnyyyyyy, it's okay, play it cool, Tim," he breathes. Patrick hopes that Tim’s just mocking the shit out of him, but he honestly can’t...tell.

"Fuck you, I can't take you anywhere," Patrick whispers, frozen for more than just a moment, and then he starts stuffing his gloves into his locker. Tim's voice had even gone a little pitchy there, the way that some girls - and occasionally a few huge guys - do, when meeting Patrick.

Saader’s across the room, and gives him a little bit of a look, but there's no way he can actually hear anything. He can think Patrick's talking to himself for all that he cares.

"It's Johnny time," Tim sing-songs.

"Are you going to be good?" Patrick whispers urgently, because he's not sure what kind of uh, fit, his penis is going to throw, and yeah, he does want a shower.

"I'm _your_ dick," Tim says.

They both wait for a beat, letting that sink in.

"You said I should take some time, to think about Johnny," Patrick points out.

"Johnny time!" Tim says, sounding maybe a little manic about it, and Saader turns around again.

"Did you ask where Johnny was? He's in the shower."

"We know!" Patrick yells, banging his head against the shelf in his stall.

"Uh, okay," Saader says. "You have a good night, Kaner."

Patrick mutters goodbye, and stomps off to the shower. "I have to _work with him_. If you say anything, you just remember who you're going home with," he warns.

"Should be Johnny," Tim says. "But fine, be like that."

Patrick flings himself into one of the showers, on the opposite side of the room than Johnny. He usually stands pretty close to him, so they can go over a couple of game things, unwind with a little bit of commentary before saying goodnight. It's just their routine.

"You're the worst. I hate you," Tim says mournfully. "This is cruel and unusual punishment. I'm trying to _help_ you."

Patrick scrubs down faster than he ever has in his life and is starting to think he's going to manage to make it out of here without Johnny calling for a restraining order or a straitjacket. Then he sort of side-shuffles toward the entrance so that he can't see any part of Johnny and -

He trips on him, because it turns out that they're both done at the same time and Patrick had been so distracted by keeping his penis quiet that he hadn't even noticed Johnny shutting off his own shower. You’d never know they were both professional athletes, possessing strong senses of balance, because Johnny stumbles so hard he lands on the floor, ass making a loud, wet sound as it hits the tile, and he grabs for Patrick’s arm to try and steady himself. It just makes Patrick tip forward on top of him, landing awkwardly against Johnny’s chest, and they both lie there for a second, a little stunned. Patrick starts to get up, but his hand slips on the tile and it somehow gets their legs tangled even more.

Johnny busts out laughing. "I thought you were the graceful one," he teases Patrick, thighs spread over the soaked tiles, his feet planted on the ground, Patrick's ankle still hooked around Johnny's.

He looks good. He looks - amazingly good, all wet and rosy-colored from the heat of his shower, with his hair plastered to his head, water dotted everywhere on his skin, grinning from ear to ear.

"Kaner?" Johnny asks, suddenly not laughing anymore, his smile fading.

Patrick decides that he's going to pretend to dry heave. He feels a sudden onset of flu coming on in three, two -

On one, Johnny leans up and kisses him.

"Was that, uh," Johnny says, drawing away, seconds or minutes later, Patrick's not really sure. "Did I read that wrong?"

"I don't know," Patrick says, more than a little dazed.

Johnny runs his tongue over his lip and nods, getting to his feet. He holds out a hand for Patrick, who takes it and tries to angle his body away from Johnny's. He shouldn't be...ogled by Patrick's talking dick. It's -

It makes Patrick feel weirdly protective of Johnny, because his dick is fixated on him. He's _Patrick's_ friend; he deserves to be respected, he deserves someone who will treat him right, someone who knows how to handle him when he's being irritating and difficult and _wrong_ , not somebody with - with a dick who thinks he's a hot piece of ass, which, okay, he _is_ , but he's so much more than -

Johnny pitches a towel at Patrick, and they towel off and dress in silence.

"We can ignore that that happened," Johnny says, while they're walking out, Patrick ahead of Johnny when it's usually the other way around.

"No," Patrick says. "It's just, it's a weird time for me."

"Thanks for, uh. Not freaking out," Johnny mumbles, and Patrick freezes in place, Johnny bouncing off his back because he'd been following so closely that he hadn't been able to stop in time.

"I wouldn't," Patrick says, turning around to face Johnny. "I've been told you're kind of a catch," he says, and suddenly, he's tense all over again.

"Yeah?" Johnny starts smiling again, a tiny, tight smile, but it's a good one nonetheless.

"Is it like a - you want to fuck around thing?" Patrick asks. Maybe Johnny's somehow been on the same page as Tim for awhile.

"Yeah," Johnny says. "I mean, we could do whatever."

"Do whatever, you know?" Patrick gestures expansively, looking around again to make sure they're still alone.

"That too," Johnny says. "But. I could take you out. Then we could - do other things. Or we could just do one of the two. Whichever one of the two that you wanted."

Tim twists a little bit in his underwear, so suddenly that Patrick startles.

"Take me out!" Patrick practically yells in Johnny's face, and backs away quickly, lest Tim get any proximity ideas.

"Yeah?" Johnny's grin spreads enough that it hurts Patrick's own cheeks to look at him.

"Yeah," Patrick nods, somehow feeling a lot surer at the sight of Johnny's excitement.

"Okay," Johnny huffs a little laugh. "Tomorrow? Seven, dinner?"

"You gonna pick me up?"

"Whole nine yards," Johnny nods, spreading his arms out obnoxiously.

"Right, yeah, okay, goodnight," Patrick says, and manages to not run straight to the door. When he gets settled in his car, he puts the key into the ignition, and, feeling amazingly stupid, asks out loud: "How was that?"

"Good job," Tim says, and...nudges Patrick's thigh. Almost like a fistbump. Patrick's seeking validation. From his penis.

He's going out with _Johnny_ tomorrow.

On a date. Because his penis won't stop waxing poetic about how great his captain is.

He turns the heat on in the car full blast and rests his head on the steering wheel for a couple minutes, recovering.

*

Is he supposed to dress up? He stares at his closet.

"Go with the plaid one," Tim says, and Patrick jumps, because Tim has been quiet all day. He picks half an hour before his date to pipe up?

"Johnny seems like a plaid kind of dude," Tim adds, so Patrick pulls his blue plaid long-sleeved shirt off of a hanger. "Don't do that thing with your hair. It's awful."

"What thing with my hair?" Patrick asks, mystified.

"That thing where you don't brush it and just let it sit there. Go add some of that shine stuff."

He puts on some nice pants, and as soon as he gets them on, he starts thinking that the pants are probably too nice, it's _Johnny_ , and he should wear jeans.

"Nope," Tim says, while Patrick's starting to unbutton the pants. "I like these. Trust me buddy, you don't wanna fight me and try and get them off. Shine spray! Not too much, you don't want to look greasy."

Patrick mists a little bit of the spray over his hair and slams the bottle back onto the counter.

"Stop fuckin’ wussing out," Tim says. "This is happening! Commit to it already."

Patrick sprays a little angrily, but it does look better. He brushes his hair out.

There's a knock at the door, and Johnny's ten minutes early, for maybe the first time in his life.

"I'm going on the date, so stop bugging me," Patrick says as he makes his way to the door. "I don't want to hear from you at all."

"What if I have tips?" Tim asks.

"What kind of tips?" Patrick asks slowly, stopping in the middle of his living room.

"If you say something dumb to him, I can help," Tim says. "I could have your back."

"I'm not going to say anything dumb to Johnny," Patrick says, and because he’s totally a bigger person than Tim, he doesn’t point out the anatomical impossibility of his penis having his back. "I've known him for half my life, man."

"You say dumb stuff to him all the time, but you're right, he doesn't seem to mind. Okay, what if you say something like, 'see you tomorrow.' What if I have tips about how to not do that? What if I have sexy tips?"

"Maybe I don't want to put out on the first date," Patrick says.

"You always put out on the first date," Tim says warningly. "Tonight better not be any different."

It _is_ different though; even Tim should understand that. "No, no sexy tips from you. I don't want them."

"You better step up on this date then," Tim says. "Play footsie! Hold his hand! Feed him food off your fork! Take him into the bathroom for a blowjob! I don’t care if they cleaned it recently! I’ll make do. Give him a handy under the table, you know he's into that public shit," Tim fires off rapidly, while Johnny starts knocking again. "Get ittttt, I believe in you! You’re the puck! Johnny’s the net! Slam it home!"

Patrick trips over - well, nothing. "Shut up, shut up, shut up," he hisses all the way to the door, and opens it, against every instinct in his body.

"Hey," Johnny says, smiling slightly.

"Hey," Patrick says, and steps aside for Johnny to come in.

"I wasn't sure how to dress," Patrick says, gesturing down. "This alright?"

It pretty much matches what Johnny's wearing, except for how Johnny has a suit jacket on.

"That's good, you look good," Johnny nods, and Patrick wanders over to his bedroom to fish a suit jacket out of his closet.

"No sexy tips," Patrick reminds, shutting off his bedroom light.

"Whatever," is not the most reassuring response he's ever heard, but it'll have to do.

*

Dinner's good.

No, dinner's actually...great.

Johnny made reservations at Chicago Cut, Patrick's favorite spot, and they've got a booth to themselves in the corner. Patrick definitely doesn't order anything with mushrooms, despite the fact that it’s probably a little too late for preventative measures. Johnny orders the sautéed mushrooms though, and Patrick starts to say something but -

It's actually maybe more likely that Patrick has a literal talking penis than it is for Chicago Cut to serve up psychedelic mushrooms, and Patrick's pretty resigned to that fact.

"I had these the other night when I was out with some of the boys," Johnny says, spooning up some of the appetizer. "Surprised you didn't get 'em; I know they're your favorites."

The top buttons of Johnny's shirt are undone like usual, and that's part of the only thing that seems to have changed here. It’s new that Patrick is noticing Johnny's throat all over again, and imagining how warm and soft it would feel if he pressed his cheek up against, but him and Johnny, they're the same as always.

They make awful jokes about hockey, they make awful jokes about each other. They snicker about stuff that they've been reading; they have an intense debate about the merits of doomsday prepping and whether it's logical to build rooms with sixty containers of mustard.

Everything's the same with them, except every now and again, Johnny will kind of stare at Patrick while he talks, his face getting this soft, pleased expression, like he just enjoys looking at Patrick; like he likes what he sees.

It makes Patrick brave enough to toe off one of his shoes, hook his foot in around Johnny's ankle and run it slowly along the inseam of Johnny's pants.

Johnny's eyes widen at the feel of Patrick's socked foot up against his leg, and he shifts, trapping Patrick's foot between his own.

"Boom!" Patrick hears Tim whisper, and he knocks his elbow against his water glass. It gets all over his pants, so the moment's more than a little ruined. Patrick looks down at his lap and can't stop cringing, horrified.

Johnny starts laughing on his side of the booth. "Smooth, Kaner," he says, and just like that, the moment's somehow back on.

"I'm gonna go, uh, dry off," Patrick says, and Johnny grins at him and nods.

There's a heated hand dryer in the bathroom, so Patrick aims it at his pants.

"My bad! That one's on me," Tim says, as soon as another dude clears out of the bathroom. "I just got excited."

Patrick is starting to understand where Tim's coming from, so he nods and aims the dryer a little off to the side, so it's not directly overheating his dick.

"Thanks, bud. Tell you what, I'm going to do you a solid and I won't even say anything else tonight," Tim promises. "Swearsies."

*

Patrick doesn't trust his dick around Johnny at all, so he doesn't invite Johnny back up to his apartment.

He does, however, make out with him in Johnny's front seat in a back corner of Patrick's parking garage, with Johnny groaning against Patrick's mouth, and biting his lips until Patrick's bottom lip feels raw and dented.

"Could I maybe take you out again?" Johnny asks when they finally pull away from each other. "We can keep doing the first one of the two?"

Patrick says: "No," and Johnny's face freezes in the whole second it takes Patrick to finish with: "It's my turn to take you out, so. After our next game?"

Johnny's face comes online again, and he nods. "Sounds good," he says softly. "Goodnight, Kaner."

Patrick doesn't dare touch him again, because talking penis or not, it's hard to look away from Johnny with his shirt all wrinkled and untucked, his hair tufted in awkward spots where Patrick had gripped it, his lips swollen and red from kissing.

"Goodnight, Johnny," Patrick says, and makes himself get out of the car alone.

*

"You’re a Communist!" Tim yells on the elevator.

"That’s not what - this doesn’t have anything to do with Communism," Patrick says, pretty sure.

"America’s about freedom! This isn’t freedom," Tim says. "Ergo, communist."

"Go fuck yourself," Patrick mutters, jamming his finger against the already lit elevator button.

"Don’t you fucking tempt me," Tim says darkly, insensibly.

Patrick is still blinking when the elevator doors glide open.

*

"I have the bluest balls in Texas," Tim says when Patrick gets into his apartment.

"We're in Illinois," Patrick points out.

"Fine. The bluest balls in America," Tim says, completely exaggeratedly.

"I played footsie with the dude, like you said!" Patrick protests, stripping off his jacket. "What more do you want from me? You can't just flip a switch on years of friendship overnight."

"You can do whatever you want," Tim says. "He wants you to! I want you to. Everybody here wants you to. Treat yo'self!"

Patrick pauses from unbuttoning his shirt. "If I look up pictures of Johnny's ass online and jerk off, will you stop talking to me?"

"I can't be bought so cheaply," Tim sniffs. "That's like getting an empty netter."

Patrick rolls his eyes and sets his shirt and pants on a chair.

"Seriously though, I can't have sex with somebody knowing you're there," Patrick says. "That's so unsexy, I can't even tell you."

"I've always been here. I'm kind of the best part," Tim says, and he manages to sound a little wounded about it.

"Yeah, but now it's creepy," Patrick says, and starts getting ready for bed. "You think I want to let you near anybody, much less Johnny of all people?"

"I am not creepy!" Tim says. "This is all temporary, things will go back to normal."

"When?" Patrick demands hopefully.

"You've always wanted a threesome," Tim points out, all petulant and sulkily. Patrick _has_ , yes, but not like this. _Never_ like this.

"You are not helping your cause," Patrick says. "If I want to sleep with Johnny, or anybody else for that matter, I don't want to run the risk of you jumping out and saying hi."

"It's usually a pretty cool thing when I jump out and say hi," Tim says. "People seem to like it. I'm like - I'm like the stripper in a cake. Who complains about a stripper in a cake?"

Patrick scowls and starts brushing his teeth.

He's lying in bed, and all's quiet until Tim says sleepily: "I leave when you don't need me anymore. Not all the way, obviously, 'cause you'll always want to have _me_ , am I right, or am I right? But we'll go back to a more traditional relationship."

Patrick blinks in the darkness.

*

So he and Johnny take turns taking each other out on dates over the next couple of weeks, and Patrick starts agreeing with Tim: he really does have the bluest balls in the entire United States of America.

One night, after walking Johnny back up to his apartment, he gropes Johnny's ass through the thin, too thin fabric of his pants in the foyer of Johnny's apartment before making himself leave and ignoring Johnny's frowning, disappointed face. Tim starts yelling on the elevator.

"You are waving a red flag in front of this bull," Tim says dangerously.

"Don't be like that," Patrick sighs.

"Red flag! Bull!" Tim yells, and Patrick buttons his coat up in a desperate attempt to muffle the noise.

*

"This is my jam!" Tim says when Johnny gets up to go pay the bill at a diner they're at. It's an old fashioned spot, and they're playing Elvis Presley on an actual jukebox. It's a little charming. Or at least, it is until -  

"It's down at the end of lonely street at Heartbreak Hotellll," Tim warbles lowly from underneath the table.

"Shut up," Patrick says, clenching his teeth, looking around as subtly as possible, pressing his thighs as close together as he can manage, to try and stifle the sound. There's a few people around, but nobody seems to notice the singing. He's going to need dental work before all this is over.

"You make me so lonely, baby, I get so lonely, I get so lonely I could dieeeee," Tim trills, but he pipes down when Johnny eases back into his seat across from Patrick, his jeans straining against his hips and thighs.

Patrick gulps down his coffee frantically.

*

Tim had said that he'd, uh, "leave", when he's no longer needed, and Patrick is guessing that Tim's definition of no longer needed has a lot to do with Johnny himself, so it's probably pointless to keep trying to put off sex until his dick goes the fuck away.

He takes a deep breath and texts Johnny: _want to maybe come over for the second thing?_

Johnny texts back gratifyingly fast with: _yes_ It's immediately followed by _sorry hit send too fast. is now good?_

 _yeah waiting for you_ Patrick writes, and drops his phone like his hands have been burned, because holy shit, he's about to have sex with Johnny.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" Tim shouts.

"Are you visualizing or something?" Patrick asks suspiciously, when Tim quiets almost immediately, and radiates - seriousness or something.

"As if," Tim scoffs, and Patrick feels better for like, a second, but then Tim has to go and continue.

"I go inside places that are great to go into. There’s no big differences when it comes down to it. So what if it’s my first dude butt. You’re not the only clutch player around here. I got you, stop worrying about it already."

He sounds...nervous though. "Shit," Patrick breathes. They sit in silence and stare at the door for a couple of minutes, and then Patrick reiterates: "You're not going to do anything right?"

"I'm one of the stars of the show," Tim huffs. "I’m gonna do lots. I got moves even you haven’t seen."

"But Johnny's...Johnny," Patrick says helplessly. "Just, don't do anything awful. Don't do anything embarrassing. Don't do anything at all, okay? Don’t - don’t do anything an average, normal penis wouldn’t do."

"Who are you calling average?" Tim protests. "Alright, alright, I'm in the penalty box for all this action, you got it. You got this!"

*

"Hey," Johnny says, when there's a knock at Patrick's door a few minutes later. He must have broken a couple of speeding laws, because they live close to each other, but not _that_ close.

"Hey," Patrick says, and he doesn't want to freeze up or give himself time to actually think this through; doesn’t want to let his fear of Tim making a cameo and Johnny running away screaming truly take hold, so he slams Johnny's back against the door. Johnny's eyes widen, and he reaches for Patrick immediately.

"Jesus, I was starting to think we might never get to the second part," Johnny says, tugging up Patrick's T-shirt. It's up and over his head before Patrick can do much more than blink.

Darkness. Darkness is totally the answer, Patrick realizes abruptly. That way, if Tim...reacts to something, Patrick can totally pass it off as him talking.

"Bedroom," he gasps out, stripping Johnny's own shirt off, almost as quickly.

Patrick gets his hands up around Johnny's neck, and they kiss their way through Patrick's apartment, stumbling on a rug and smacking into a wall because they're not paying attention to anything but each other. He shoves Johnny back again and again, trying to keep him from noticing that they're making out in the dark.

"Shit, Kaner, turn on the lights, I wanna see you," Johnny murmurs, and grinds up against him, making it hard for Patrick to want to say no to anything Johnny wants right now.

"Next time," Patrick hopes, and gets Johnny's pants off. Johnny's not much use at all while Patrick's tugging them down off of Johnny's hips and thighs and legs, because Johnny's fingers are busy trailing up and down Patrick's face and neck and collarbone, light, sweeping touches that make Patrick shiver.

"No, now, wanna see," Johnny mumbles, and oh shit, oh shit, his hand is working its way into Patrick's boxers, and he's loosely fisting Patrick's dick.

"Don't talk," Patrick pleads.

"Okay, okay," Johnny says, and Patrick can't even correct him. Johnny starts stroking, an easy rhythm, his fingers just exactly the sort of pressure that Patrick likes best.

Everything is thankfully silent that should be silent, and the only noises in the room are of Johnny's short, hitched little breaths, and Patrick's purposefully loud breathing and random strategically staggered groans - a pre-emptive strike, or a last line of defense, in case there's any other sounds that need covering.

Johnny takes his hand off of Patrick's dick and lines their hips up, sliding their dicks up next to each other and rutting unevenly, Johnny's hands tight on his hips, his fingernails digging in deep on Patrick's ass.

"Yeah?" Johnny asks.

"God, yeah," Patrick says, and gets his knees up a little to help with the friction.

It's the first time that Patrick comes since his penis started talking to him. It's strangely anticlimactic. It's not _bad_ , not by a long shot, because he feels Johnny tense up alongside him, the strain and hot press of Johnny's thighs tight up against his. He feels Johnny's come against his stomach, mixing in with Patrick's come that's spattered along Johnny's hips and thighs. Johnny's weight on top of him while he catches his breath is welcome too, and Patrick rubs his back, settling them both down.

But he'd maybe expected Tim to be a little more vocal about the proceedings, and with each passing minute that nothing happens, Patrick calms down more and more. Because hey, what's the worst that could happen? Patrick's dick starts talking, and Johnny hears, and then he'd know what Patrick's been dealing with all this month. What's the worst thing that Tim could say? That Johnny's beautiful or some shit like that?

It wouldn't be anything less than true. Patrick's dick might be an obnoxious shit, but it's been pretty spot on about things.

"Don't wanna move," Johnny says.

"Then don't," Patrick says.

"We're all sticky," Johnny says. "It's cold."  
  
"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Patrick smiles and gets up, pads off to the bathroom. He wets down a washcloth with warm water, and glances in the mirror to make sure Johnny's not behind him.

"Hey," Patrick says, and pokes at his dick.

Nothing happens.

"Tim?" Patrick whispers. He digs his nails in as hard as he can bear to, and flinches from it, but Tim doesn't react or anything. He flicks his fingers across the head a few times, to be absolutely sure.

He's pretty sure Tim has exited the building.

"Are you talking to your junk?" Johnny asks, shoulder planted on the door frame, his voice deeply amused.

"What, no," Patrick says, and pitches the washcloth at Johnny. It bounces off of Johnny's chest, and Johnny ignores it, walking over to Patrick.

"Did you tell it good job?" Johnny teases, nuzzling in along Patrick's neck from behind.

"You don't even know what you're saying," Patrick says, but he bends his neck to the side a little, to give Johnny better access. He manages to get another washcloth even while Johnny's distracting him, and half-assedly wipes them both off.

"Want to get under some blankets? Since you're cold?" Patrick asks, but Johnny's already pulling him back over to the bed. They crawl in together, and pretty soon, Patrick's going to make a case for getting in Johnny, because if just grinding up against each other in the dark while Patrick was somewhat consumed by the fear of his dick telling Johnny he's beautiful was that good, then Patrick's pretty sure that Johnny's ass around his dick is the kind of stuff people write songs about.

*

They're back at Chicago Cut; it seems like it has some sentimental value to Johnny now, since it was the site of their first date, even though Patrick knows that there's other places in Chicago that Johnny likes better.

They order the sautéed mushrooms to share, but the waiter shakes his head apologetically.

"I'm sorry, sir, we're having a bit of an issue with our vendor," the waiter says.

"What sort of issue?" Patrick asks, but he's already scanning the appetizer list for other options.

"We're not clear on that," the waiter says. "We haven't been able to procure our normal supply, so until we get it sorted out, they won't be available on the menu."

The guy totally looks uncomfortable; way more uncomfortable than out-of-stock mushrooms warrant.

Patrick frowns behind his menu, because - no.

"It's fine," Johnny says. "How about the crab cakes with the lobster bisque sauce?"  
  
Patrick nods, still distracted, but he hands his menu back over.

When Johnny's socked foot rubs in along Patrick's anklebone, and Johnny peers at him, so not innocently over his glass of wine, Patrick can't exactly bring himself to care how it all came together.

 

* * *

 

So maybe that’s it.

Maybe that’s the story.

A story about some mushrooms (or a talking penis if you don’t buy into the whole “Chicago Cut psychedelic mushroom scandal” option), and a couple of hockey players getting their gay shit together.

Maybe it ends there.

Or maybe you, dear reader, believe in the power of love to transcend.

 

(If you are such a reader, the stunning conclusion to this tale of yearning and desire will be coming this week.)


	2. Sir Nunez Rises to the Occasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, say what you want, but this story would totally explain some of the challenges in Johnny's game over the last couple of years.
> 
> Also, I reserve the right to change the last couple of lines of this 'cause I've sat on this story for months waiting for an ending to come to me and this is all I've got.

_Spring, 2016:_

 

"Hi. Hey. Hello."  
  
Patrick - didn't hear that. He absolutely, 100% did not hear that. It's been over a year and it hadn't happened in the first place, and -

"I need to talk to you. It's important. It’s about the future."  
  
Nope.  
  
"Denial continues to be unattractive, Pat."  
  
"Tim?" Patrick says unsteadily.

"No, it's your _other_ penis," Tim says snottily. "I see time hasn't improved the wits."

Patrick falls silent for a moment, long enough for Tim to prompt: “Did you fall back asleep? Don’t be a loser, Pat.”

"What do you want?" Patrick hisses. "Why are you back? This isn’t like the last time - everything’s good! Great, even! Everything’s working out great!”

“Of course it is, didn’t I tell you? Johnny’s our boy! Anyway, I don’t have too much time, it takes a lot to cross over and then there’s the sage smudging thing, really depletes the energy stores, and the smell is just fuckin’ awful, like if a meadow EXPLODED, do you get me. Then I had to make sense of these old as fuck texts and okay, I’m going to level with you: I got a little sleepy, but I’m sure I got the important parts. But, Pat. I had this thought, and I wanted to run it past you, so hear me out. You gonna hear me out?”  
  
"No," Patrick tries. "No, it's been almost two years, and it was the mushrooms, and -"  
  
"It was never the mushrooms!" Tim snaps. "I'm here, I'm in your face! You gotta listen up. I want to know what you think about starting a family."

"No," Patrick tries again, a lot more desperate this time. Family? He and Johnny - they’re still new. Well, they’re not new-new, they’ve known each other for ten years, but they’re…

He and Johnny haven't talked about it, because there's nothing to really talk about.

"I really think it's a great idea though. Do you think, maybe we could put a baby in Johnny?" Tim asks, and God help Patrick, Tim sounds all shy about it, like he'd be toeing the carpet if he could.

Patrick’s not often lost for words, and it figures that it happens more around his dick than anybody - anything else.

"That's biologically impossible, little dude," Patrick says softly, and he can't help but be gentle about it. Tim sounds so hopeful; Patrick guesses he can't expect his penis to understand that even if the will is strong, he's not going to be able to impregnate a man.

"It's difficult, obviously," Tim says. "Most things worth having are, and all that. There's ways, big time ways, you know?"

"There's really not," Patrick says. "I get the, um, idea behind it. I get why you'd want to! It's not something that men can do, buddy."  
  
"Nothing’s impossible if you have a dream and a willingness to see it through, you know that. Okay, let’s take it a step at a time here. Think about it. Our baby would be so beautiful. Just picture it, a little mini-Johnny out there, falling down all the time. And you'd see Johnny walking around and you'd know that yeah, you put ‘er in there. How awesome would that be? You need to work on your ability to think outside the box. It used to be that you couldn't be gay. Now you can't make a baby with your man. You need to let go of these negative thought patterns. What's wrong with a can-do attitude? You've got to take your belief in your skills on the ice and carry it off it."  
  
“No,” Patrick settles on finally.

"You have a responsibility to pass on our genes. Combined with Johnny's, come on, you know that'd be sick. What a sick kid, Pat. We owe it to the universe."

“It’s not _possible_ ,” Patrick repeats, a little pitchily, but then - Tim has a tendency to bring that out in him. "This is kind of a decision you helped make. You thought Johnny was a good idea, and hey, good job, you were right, but I mean, there's consequences, and one of those is that Johnny literally cannot have a baby. I can't have a baby. Nobody can have a baby in this equation."

“But say it was possible. Just say it was! You good if I do things to help it all along?”  
  
“Live the fuckin’ dream,” Patrick sighs after a full minute of dead silence, giving up. He’s too tired to fight it out tonight.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Tim chants.

“Might wanna, hey, check with Johnny though, since it’d be his business too,” Patrick sighs, slurring a little bit, already half-asleep.

“What do you take me for? I mean, I read the body language and he’s way there, but I’ll get it all squared away. Don’t worry about a thing, I got this. You just be ready to do your part when the hour comes. Ha. Do. _Do_ your part. It’s gonna be showtime! EPIC showtime!”

Patrick buries his face under his pillow.

*

_Slightly later Spring, 2016:_

 

"Hi. Hey. Hello. Bonjour, mon amour," Kaner says.

Johnny blinks blearily against Kaner’s hair. “What?” he mumbles, fist sliding around his pillow a bit.

“Got a question for you.”

“What?” Johnny sighs, fuzzily glancing at the clock. “It’s two fucking a.m., Kaner.” That’s when he realizes that...Kaner’s mouth isn’t moving. Kaner’s face is pressed into Johnny’s neck, and he’s passed out.

And his mouth isn’t moving at all.

Johnny flicks on the lamp. Flicks on, slams his hand on the cord, same difference.

“Gosh, this is so exciting.”

Johnny scans the room frantically. “You fuck, do you have a recording of your voice somewhere?” Only - it’s not Kaner’s voice. It’s almost Kaner’s voice, but it’s not exactly right.

“I wish I had more time,” the voice says wistfully. “But rules are rules, and all that. Now’s not the time to go rogue, I have a lot of responsibilities now, you know. Anyway, I just - I guess I want to start off right and tell you that I appreciate you, more than you’ll ever know.”

Johnny flips the blanket off Kaner, there has to be a phone somewhere around his waist.

But - “Do you feel appreciated?” the voice continues, and it sounds like it’s...like it’s coming from Kaner’s junk.

“Yes?” Johnny says, strangled, gingerly reaching for Kaner’s thigh, poking at it with his index finger, drawing his finger back hurriedly when nothing happens. He doesn’t even know what he expected to happen.

“I mean, he lacks imagination off the ice, but he’s a good dude, yeah? I know he forgot your birthday, but we made up, right? And I think we’re in a good place now, everybody involved in the relationship here.”

“What?”

“I think we’re ready to move this along. How do you feel about kids, like. Offspring. Little mini-me’s runnin’ around, maybe some curls, you know how those get you feeling some kinda way.”

“I - what?” Okay, this is just a weird dream. He has possibly been freaking out about bringing up adoption to Kaner, because - because, okay, maybe they couldn’t adopt now, but in a few years, when their careers are winding down...what’s stopping them? He’d just like to know if that’s a thing they could have, the thing they’re moving toward. This is clearly a dream that he's having because he's not doing a good enough job at managing his subconscious thoughts.

“I think that all sounds awesome, but my opinion doesn’t really matter here. How do you feel about it, Johnny?”

“How do I feel about what?” Johnny asks, daringly resuming his poking at Kaner’s thigh, scanning his face. Guy’s out cold, still.

There’s a weirdly indignant little huffing sound. “Obliviousness doesn’t become you! I need to _know_ , gotta make sure you’re on board. There’s a lot of stuff involved, you have to get the moon schedules right, then there’s the sacrifices to Brigid, and don’t even get me _started_ on Cernunnos with that fuckin’ stag bullshit and what do stags even have to do with babies? Whole lot of unnecessary drama, if you ask me. Then you have to do the dance thing and I mean, I’m not gonna bother if it’s not even something you’re into.”

“Into what? What’s going on? Who are you?” Johnny demands.

“You’re damn pretty, but slower on the uptake than I’d like right about now. Maybe that’s on me, middle of the night and all. Let’s just get back on task here, focus on the target. So...babies. Are you pro babies? Against babies? Remember that time you hit that kid on the ice? That wasn’t how you really feel or anything, right? How do you feel about having Patrick’s babies.”

“This is fuckin’ insane,” Johnny says, scrambling from the bed, poking around drawers. Sharpy put Kaner up to this, it has to be rigged somewhere. He shakes Kaner’s shoulder.

“He can’t hear you, this is all us right now,” the voice sighs. “I was hoping this would go better.”

“What do you mean he can’t hear us. Is he okay?” Johnny clasps Kaner’s shoulder tighter.

“I’m gonna need you to focus up, Johnny. Little Patricks, tell me that doesn’t tug at the heartstrings. Maybe a dimple or two, but I can’t make any promises on that one. Babies. Oh, and I mean. Your body might get a little weird while it gets ready and all that. It’s hard to make sense of all the texts. But everything goes back where it should, swearsies. Unless it doesn’t. But I’m pretty sure, I’d never do you like that. 88 percent sure at least. Yeah?”

Johnny starts running his hand up and down Kaner’s arm...Kaner’s one of the lightest sleepers Johnny’s ever known and he’s just not even stirring. It’s freaking him out.

“He’s fine, oh my god, you two are definitely made for each other.” The voice actually sounds like it’s...eyerolling him. “Talk to me about babies.”

“I’m pro-fuckin’ babies. Kaner’s baby would be…” Johnny trails off.

“Yeah?” the voice demands hopefully.

“Beautiful,” Johnny says softly. He’s thought about adopting a time or twenty, but he’s - he’s just not sure where Kaner is with all that, and he doesn’t want to mess up what they have going, because what they have going - it’s. It’s everything Johnny had ever hoped it would be. “They’d be amazing. I’d want Kaner’s baby.”

There’s a short pause. “Okay. Well. Okay then. Cool. I mean. No pressure. Totally not feeling any pressure here. I’m gonna step it up for you guys, double swearsies. Anyway. So that’s settled! I’ll get on it, I mean, it’s not like there’s a manual or anything, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out. Morning sex!”

“What?” Johnny asks.

“You go for it tomorrow. I’m gonna pull out all the stops. You deserve the best. So um. Anyway. That’s all I needed to cover. It’s - it’s been really fun, you know, hanging out like this,” the voice says softly. “Goodnight, Johnny.”

“Wait, just -”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Kaner asks, squinting, yet still managing to glare down at where Johnny is gripping his elbow so hard that his knuckles are white. Johnny stares at him, tries to center his breathing. In, out. In, out. It’s fine. This is a dream. Johnny shuts off the lamp and turns Kaner around so that he can rest his weight along Kaner’s back. Maybe it's because Kaner’s skin feels good. Maybe it's so that Kaner can't turn back over without Johnny knowing about it, and there's a whole - barrier, now. It's all fine.

“Johnny?” Kaner asks.

“Shh, it’s fine, I told you. Goodnight.”

“Okay, stay cool,” Kaner mumbles.

*

When he wakes up the next morning, he decides he needs to ease up on the Alpha Brain a little bit. Yeah, it helps him sleep great, but that was a pretty crazed dream, even for him.

*

_Valentine’s Day, 2017:_

 

He’d thought this season was gonna be better. He’d done pretty decently during the World Cup and came back to Chicago, got Kaner on his line even. Got voted into the ASG despite only having what, seven? Eight goals?

“Stop stewing,” Kaner sighs. “You’re trending up right now, just had that four point night. It’s coming together. Get back in the hot tub.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. It’s their bye week so they decided to take a quick little vacation in Mexico, recharge, get ready for the playoff push.

“We’ve won five in a row...I mean, you know we’re gonna lose to Edmonton when we get back, but five in a row is fucking great, and you’re contributing, and we’re rolling right along. You might get first star of the month at this rate.”

Johnny slides into the hot tub, water rising around his thighs. “Keep saying nice things,” he demands, pressing against Kaner’s leg with his foot.

“You don’t suck,” Kaner says, with enough of a leer on his face that Johnny already has a sense of what’s coming next. “And when you do suck, you suck great -” he sputters as Johnny dunks his head under the water. “Plus, you seem like you’re feeling better,” Kaner says when Johnny deigns to let him back up, which, well, is mostly true. Johnny’s gone from the weird all-over spasms from a couple months back to more of a light-headed general feeling of nausea, and hey, he’ll take that any day.

***

 

Patrick’s a little sunburned, and he hasn’t seen Johnny in a couple of hours, so he troops up to the house, rinsing his feet off with the bucket of water they’d stashed by the door.

"Johnny?" he calls, poking his head in the fridge. "I’m making sandwiches, you want anything?" There’s no response, so Patrick spreads out some mayo and ham and folds in some mustard. He takes a huge bite and makes his way to the bedroom, fully expecting to see Johnny sprawled out on the huge bed, but no. It’s still rumpled, and unmade, completely empty. "Johnny?" he calls again and pokes his head in the bathroom. Johnny’s - asleep, head propped up against the wall, shoulders huddled under one of the bathroom towels. The room smells like puke and ocean air, and Patrick hurriedly sets his plate on the counter and crouches, cupping his face. "Hey," he says. "Not feeling good?"

"Ugh," Johnny mumbles, and nuzzles into Patrick’s palm. "I feel so shitty."

Patrick frowns - they’ve basically eaten all the same things lately, so it’s probably not food poisoning. Must be a virus or a cold. "Come on, let’s get you up," Patrick says. Johnny nods and braces his palm on the floor. His eyes widen and he lurches for the toilet.

"How is there anything left to puke?" Johnny asks faintly, and drops his head back to Patrick’s chest. Patrick grimaces to himself and strokes Johnny’s hair for a moment before easing him up and over to the sink.

"No, no, your sandwich," Johnny moans, sways, and starts dry heaving again. Patrick hurriedly sets the sandwich outside the door and fills a glass with water. He helps Johnny to get his mouth rinsed out, and then holds up a toothbrush questioningly. Johnny flinches, bud nods determinedly, managing a few brush swipes before he blanches and grabs for the water. "I’m sorry," Johnny says, when Patrick’s getting him settled into bed. "Our vacation, and this happens."

"Yeah, way to get the plague and ruin our vacay," Patrick sighs. His dude’s more than a little ridiculous.

"But I wanted to fuck you on a beach," Johnny says, intensely put-upon.

"We still got time for you to feel better," Patrick points out.

"But I don’t feel good _now_ ," Johnny says.

*

Johnny never does wind up feeling good enough to fuck Patrick on a beach, but truth be told, Patrick doesn’t exactly mind missing out. Sand could go into places where sand should never go, and it just seems like it could get messy. They make it out of Mexico, but Johnny’s a bit of a beast, and not the awesome on-ice kind - he’s never been all about gracefully taking being sick. The virus lingers, and he keeps sniping at Patrick, to the point where Patrick’s pretty sure he’s gonna turn over a key to Johnny’s condo to Sharpy and not ask any questions later:  
  
"I said I wanted the fucking chenille one," Johnny yells, pitching the flannel throw off to the side.

*

“Why did you get the bigger fruit yoghurt? I’m the one that asked for it, so why don’t you get the small one?”

*

“I said we needed to get a lemon for dinner, not a lime. How did you wind up with a lime? You’re going to need to go back out to the store.”

*

“Hey, wake up. Patrick. Wake up. You know that Walgreens on the corner? They had the non-dairy Ben & Jerry’s. Go get us a couple pints, eh?”

“...it’s two a.m.,” Patrick says.

“Yeah, I checked online, they’re open all night, it’s fine,” Johnny says, like that’s even the problem. Whatever. Patrick slides into his tennis shoes, throws on a long coat, and grabs his keys and his wallet off the table. Some fresh air sounds nice, actually.

“You’re going out in those?” Johnny asks snottily, eying Patrick’s ratty boxers as Patrick buttons the coat up.

“Yep,” Patrick grins. “What are the chances someone wants my autograph? I’m going out getting you ice cream at two a.m., you don’t exactly have room to judge here.”

Johnny snorts, but otherwise settles into the couch so...yeah, okay, Patrick’s just rolling with it these days.

*

Just like Patrick had thought, Johnny’s awesome, killing it out there on the ice. But he’s still a moody fuck that insists on driving Patrick up a wall.

"I told you to come to a full stop before taking the shot!" Johnny hisses, kicking the puck with his skate viciously.

"Fuck you, you did not," Patrick yells.

"Stop trying to be so flashy, it’s just a practice. It’s not showtime!"

Normally, somebody saying something like that would definitely rub Patrick the wrong way, but instead, right now, all he really feels is concern. It’s never _just_ practice, not for the two of them.

"Hey babe," he says, skating over. "What’s up?" He’s pretty sure he sounds - nice, not mocking or anything, because he definitely isn’t aiming for anything but nice. It must not come out that way, because Johnny lets out a frustrated yell, pitches his stick across the rink, and skates off furiously, slamming the door open along the boards, and then the door that leads to the locker room.

Oookay, Patrick exhales, and goes to retrieve Johnny’s stick, gathers up the pucks they’ve been using. He takes his time with it; wants to give Johnny a few minutes. When he enters the locker room, he’s not prepared for Johnny to be sitting on the bench, eyes red-rimmed and shaking like he just finished crying. This is so out of Patrick’s relationship expertise. He starts stripping out of his gear mechanically, trying to figure out what to say. Patrick’s sort of more of a crier between the two, and Johnny knows he mostly wants to be left alone when it happens. He has no idea if that’s true for Johnny too. They’ve known each other all this time and it just - it doesn’t exactly come up.

"Uh," he starts, not hugely sure of what’s going to follow. Johnny talks over him and says he wants a Bangkok burrito from Freshii, and he’s sorry, he’s pretty sure he didn’t actually tell Patrick to skate to a stop before taking the shot. Johnny’s looking down at the floor, and his voice is perfectly level.

"Yeah, Freshii sounds good," Patrick says. "Come on, shower." He starts tugging Johnny up, and maybe it’s the angle of how Johnny’s slumped over but - huh. Johnny notices that Patrick’s glancing at his stomach and his face gets all cloudy and angry again.

"I fucking noticed too, so shut up, I’m on it," Johnny snaps. Patrick didn’t say a word! He knows how dedicated Johnny is to their fitness regimens. He’s more confused than anything; confused at how Johnny packing on a bit of pudge around his middle is even _possible_. This is totally one of those situations that, whatever Patrick says, it’s gonna be the wrong response. So he says absolutely nothing and continues tugging and shoving Johnny into the shower room, and thumps him encouragingly across his back a couple of times.

*

Patrick loves Johnny like he never knew he could love anybody, but if he and Johnny ‘brought hockey back to the city of Chicago,' well, Patrick is surely within his rights to take it away again, because he’s about to wind up in prison for murdering his captain.

"Don’t sleep next to me tonight. I don’t want to touch you," Johnny says.

"Okay?" Patrick says, hands pausing where he’s lifting up the blanket. "I can go back to my apartment."

"I didn’t say I want you to leave," Johnny says. "Stay on the couch or blow up the air mattress in here." They’re redoing the guest room, so there’s currently no other beds in the apartment.

"Fuck you, I want a bed," Patrick snaps.

The look Johnny levels him with quiets Patrick, and he grumbles the entire time he makes up the couch, but whatever. He’s here. He’s sleeping on the stupid couch. He texts Johnny a picture of his legs, with the couch clearly visible beneath them, waits ten minutes with no response, and passes out. When he wakes, he has two hundred and...probably fifteen now, jeez, pounds of cute hockey player tucked in around his back, and how Johnny managed to wedge himself so completely around Patrick without waking him up is beyond him. Johnny’s a fuckin’ weirdo, Patrick thinks, stroking hair back from Johnny’s temple, and kissing the side of his mouth. But he’s Patrick’s fuckin’ weirdo.

*

Patrick’s geared himself up for - well, words. An exchange of some kind. He knows Johnny’s going through some shit, and Patrick wants to be there for him, 1000%. He fuckin’ - he fuckin’ _loves_ him, but he has to know what’s going on already, because it’s like Johnny’s been possessed by a demon. A really dickish, yet clingy demon. Okay. He’s gonna do it. He’s gonna tell Johnny to get his shit together, and at least talk to him a little nicer, or tell him what’s going on upstairs, because otherwise Patrick’s gonna call some priests or something. He will have like, six priests shipped here from Buffalo if Johnny makes him. He walks into the kitchen, psyched and ready to go, and almost falls over in a green puddle.

There’s kale smoothie everywhere, spewed and in chunks and dripping down Johnny’s miserable face, while he’s sitting on the floor, looking off kind of blankly into space.

“Is this puke? Or is it the smoothie?” Patrick asks, perfectly calm.

“Both,” Johnny says listlessly.

“Right,” Patrick sighs, and goes to find a mop.

*

“Hey, sorry guys,” Johnny calls, working his way down the plane. They just dropped a game in Detroit and Johnny had insisted on taking some shortcut at the airport, letting the rest of them go ahead, and managing to delay the take-off.

There’s a few tired grunts, but no real reactions until Johnny takes his seat next to Patrick, glances around furtively, and pops a Timbit into his mouth.

Patrick stares. It’s like - it’s like a fucking bodysnatcher is sitting next to him.

“What are you _thinking_ ,” he hisses, quieter than he wants to be, because Donna Kane didn’t raise no narc.

“I just,” Johnny mumbles. “I wanted something that tasted like home.”

What does Patrick even say to that. “Well, give me one,” he grumbles.

Johnny actually covers the box with his palm for a second, before reluctantly tipping the box up to allow Patrick access.

“The hell,” Patrick says.

*

Johnny and Patrick sit down for dinner at Flat Top Grill. "I know I’m supposed to be paying attention to my weight, but I want this," Johnny says, eyes narrowed dangerously across the table from Patrick. Why does Johnny keep insisting on having conversations with Patrick when he’s not even asking any questions?

*

“Who the fuck are Bridget and Sir Nunez,” Patrick reads off the laptop screen, laughing at Johnny’s open Google search. “You meet some weird fans?”

Johnny, incredibly, is turning beet red, the sort of beet red that implies an implosion is nigh, but something clicks in Patrick’s brain. “You mean Brigid and the stag guy?”

Johnny freezes. “What? Who?”

“Celtic gods,” Patrick shrugs. “My grandma was into a lot of mythology stuff, she used to read to me and Erica when we were kids.”

“Brigid and the stag guy, Sir Nunez, what did they do? What were they gods of?” Johnny asks, practically vibrating out of his skin.

“Uh, you okay?” Patrick asks.

“Just, never mind. Can you go throw in that butternut squash?”

Patrick decides to just give him a couple minutes, the guy clearly wants to be left alone. He decides to live another day, nods, pads into the kitchen, and puts the squash into the oven, dutifully ignores Johnny clacking away on the keys out there.

He also ignores Johnny pouring practically half a cup of maple syrup over the squash later, because...Johnny looks tired, and freaked, and Patrick’s just hoping that something gives soon.

*

There’s like, eight full bottles of Onnit supplements in the trash in the bathroom, and Patrick quietly fistpumps. That stuff is totally unproven and hey, it could absolutely be what’s been making Johnny feel so out of sorts for months now. He’s been taking it for a couple of years, maybe it accumulated in his system and is like, poisoning him. Patrick has never trusted sketch mushrooms, and that’s practically all that Alpha Brain shit is. Maybe now Johnny will be on the road to recovery.

*

Johnny’s curled up on the sofa with the chenille blanket, watching game four of their Nashville series from this year, which they just got bounced the fuck out of. Patrick blanches. “Why are you watching that, man?”

That’s when he realizes there’s a pile of tissues next to Johnny, and that his eyes are glossy, barely dry tear tracks running along his cheeks.

Patrick claps his hands. “Tea! You want some tea? Um, coffee? Tang?”

“Tang?” Johnny repeats.

They don’t even have Tang. Patrick’s not sure if they make it anymore. He hasn’t drunk it in a decade. Why did he offer up Tang? “Uh, like...prune juice? Orange juice?”

Johnny shakes his head against the couch, slides down a little bit. Patrick decides to take that as a hint to sit down, which he does, and then Johnny settles his head in Patrick’s lap, and, well, Johnny’s ears are right there, so he strokes them quietly and keeps going even as Johnny starts to fall asleep. It’s when the light snoring begins that Patrick realizes the remote is by Johnny’s feet and they’re only in the second period.

*

Sharpy calls them up and asks if they want to have a barbecue at his old place; he and Abby wanted to come for a visit.

“You coming back or what,” Patrick asks, sucking on a finger when he tries to take a too-hot rib from the platter.

“Looking like,” Sharpy - well, he’s practically fucking glowing, and Patrick can’t lie. He feels the same way.

“What’s with that one?” Sharpy asks, waving tongs lazily in Johnny’s general direction.

“Bodysnatched,” Patrick says.

“I keep wanting to punch him, but I also want to send him to therapy, so he can talk it out,” Sharpy muses.

“Basically,” Patrick nods, throat doing strange things while he watches Johnny, in a rare, shining moment of like - pre-bodysnatched Johnny, chilling out on the grass with Sadie and Madelyn. Sadie keeps handing him dandelions, and he’s pretending to be surprised each time her chubby little fists present him with flowers.

Patrick’s chest gets a little tight.

“And do you need me to say something to him about the uh, weight?” Sharpy asks quietly. “Getting a little close to the season.”

Sharpy is very, very lucky he doesn’t get punched, and he seems to take in enough of Patrick’s face to realize it, because he returns his attention to the grill, and starts working the corn.

*

“I’m telling you, this is living the dream,” Sharpy says breezily, clinking a glass of wine against Abby’s beer, head tipped back in his lawn chair, Sadie draped over him, passed out and drooling, Madelyn judiciously picking flowers from the garden for another centerpiece.

Patrick’s chewing on a pretty decent piece of meat and it - the phrasing - starts ringing through his brain.

Living the dream. Live the dream. The pork goes down funny and Patrick is swallowing water hard, thinking about -

About body language, about babies, about epic showtime.

“Is there sour cream on this?” Johnny frowns at the corn.

“I wasn’t in Dallas long enough to forget your allergies, Jon,” Sharpy drawls.

Johnny’s fist curls around a napkin. “Fucking fuck you,” he hisses.

“How have you gotten even moodier in the last couple of years? I’d have thought that bagging this one would’ve chilled the angst in your soul or whatever,” Sharpy says, gesturing vaguely in Patrick’s general direction.

Patrick starts coughing just as Johnny’s chair scrapes against the floor, and he stalks off.

“I’ve missed him,” Abby says fondly. “You okay there?”

Patrick waves her off when she mimics doing the Heimlich at him, gulps down some water, glancing over his shoulder to the stairs, catching a brief glimpse of Johnny’s back as he slams the screen door behind him.

“Marriage, man,” Sharpy says, knowingly. "Remember that time when I came into the kitchen after what, your sixth bathroom trip when you were pregnant with Sadie and you were holding that bread knife and I was like, babe, what are you doing, and you said, thinking about you?"

"Yeah," Abby says, and they’re both smiling sappily at each other and - that’s really not all that funny.

“People go through stuff,” Sharpy says, like he’s trying to be encouraging, actually trying to pass on some wisdom. “Just gotta ride it out.”

Patrick has been riding it out. He’s ridden it. He gets up and makes his way indoors blindly, feeling like he might puke on the floor or something. He shuts Sharpy’s bathroom door behind him, unzips his jeans, thrusts his pants down along with his underwear. “Did you do this?” he demands. “Did you do something? What the fuck did you even do man?” He grips his dick hard, trying to get Tim to talk, to say something, but all he gets is a damning silence, followed by an incredulous throat clearing noise behind him. Johnny’s...sitting on the floor, staring up at him.

“Uh,” Patrick says, not really sure even where to start.

“The fuck?” Johnny asks, staring at his dick.

“You feeling okay?” Patrick ventures.

Johnny shifts his weight on the floor, continuing to look confused and more than a little wild. “Kaner.”

“Okay, so. So. Remember when we started dating?” Patrick asks, leaning back against the sink for - definitely not support, just because he feels stupid standing in the middle of Sharpy’s bathroom with Johnny sitting on the floor, not even on a rug or anything. It’s messing with Patrick, and he’s finding it a little hard to focus, his vision’s getting blurry and he definitely stuffed his face with too many ribs.

“Why are you talking to your junk?” Johnny asks.

“Guys do that. Guys talk to their junk,” Patrick says, and then, inexplicably, he says: “Could you be pregnant.”

Something contorts in Johnny’s whole face, and it makes Patrick hurriedly tug up his boxers, his pants. He flicks down the toilet seat, and sits down.

“Sharpy put you up to this,” Johnny says.

“I wish,” Patrick says. “It’s just, it’s. This thing.”

“This thing with your junk.”

“This thing with my junk, yeah. It sort of, I mean. I don’t know. I used to think my dick talked to me. Sometimes. About life. Stuff.”

The whole thing spills out then, Johnny not looking away, just blinking unsettlingly slowly. “So, I mean, that’s all crazy, obviously,” Patrick concludes. “I need to focus up. Thinking crazy thoughts here, right? We’ll go get you some specialists or something, make a vacation out of it, if you want. I mean, I’m not sure what specialists they have for bodysn-- for your symptoms, but -”

“Go get a pregnancy test,” is all Johnny says after Patrick talks for five minutes straight.

“Okay,” Patrick manages, and basically flees the bathroom, breathing hard against the wall outside. He thinks about going - somewhere. Somewhere not here, for all of two seconds, but this is fucking ridiculous. He ducks into Sharpy and Abby’s bedroom and finds a Cubs hat and shirt he’d never wear, and peels off his own clothes. He can’t exactly go out there and buy a pregnancy test some part of his brain is screaming at him, it’ll hit Twitter or Snapchat or some other fucking thing in two minutes and then Stan will be on the phone and - it doesn’t matter. None of that matters. Johnny’s sitting in Sharpy’s bathroom waiting for him, and he needs to do this.

There’s a bag of shit in the closet - a nurse’s costume, a detective hat, a stethoscope, twenty random wigs, six pairs of fuzzy handcuffs, and Patrick did not need to know any of this. He eyes the fake mustache for all of six seconds, decides to go for it, stares at himself in the mirror. Sharpy hadn’t even invested in a piece with actual hair, as if Abby doesn’t deserve at least that much, so he discards it.

Go. He just has to - go. Go and do this. They drove past a Jewel-Osco on the way over, so Patrick ducks out the door and googles frantically for “best pregnancy tests”, but when he gets there, they all look about the same, so he just - picks three randomly. Then he grabs three more, as back-ups. But he’s never really liked the number six, so he adds two more of the First Response ones to his pile. He’d definitely like a fucking quick response. He turns around blindly and they all go scattered across the floor, because he totally just hit an old lady with his elbow.

“Oh, hello,” is all she says, and waits patiently while he apologizes three times and frantically picks everything up.

“Can you buy these for me?” he blurts.

She eyes him suspiciously. “I mean, money,” he says, setting them down on a shelf while he pulls out his wallet. He’s got like, four hundreds, and he thrusts them all at her. “Can you just,” he trails off. “Please?”

“Are you in a predicament, son?” she asks kindly, and scoops them into her cart, taking two of the hundreds from his hand. “You just wait by that front door. I have to get my milk, but we’ll get you situated.”

*

Patrick hovers outside the door, watching furtively for the lady, but trying to look nonchalant, like he’s not waiting for anything at all. He’s just hanging out. Hanging outside this Jewel-Osco, checking out the vending machine.

“Here you go,” the lady says, handing him a bag, and pressing money into his hand. “Two dollars and six cents is your change.” He shakes his head at her, huffing a little laugh, because - yeah. “Double bags,  so you don’t need to worry about prying eyes, so that was an extra fourteen cents to those vultures in the mayor's office,” she nods.

“Here, as a thanks,” he says, and presses the other two hundred into her hand. She tries to refuse it, tells him babies are expensive, and he ignores the sensation that he’s about to pass out on the sidewalk, waves at her as he walks off.

“Kaner, you’re back!” Madelyn greets him at Sharpy’s front door, where she’d apparently been watching for him, thrusting out a bouquet of flowers.

“Thanks, kiddo,” he says, and takes the flowers reflexively. “Give me like, ten minutes, I’ll be back outside, okay?” He doesn’t really hear her response, just makes his way back to the bathroom, tucking the flowers into his cargo shorts on the way. The door is locked, so Patrick knocks quietly. “Hey, it’s me.”

The doorknob rattles and Patrick is swiftly pulled in, the door shut and locked behind him. “You got the stuff?” Johnny asks.

“I, yeah,” Patrick thrusts the bag at him. “Um, they all look the same, quality wise,” he ventures. “Like, there isn’t one that seems more accurate than the rest, but we can try them all out and see how it goes and all that.”

Johnny’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out, and Patrick’s usually pretty proud when he renders this guy speechless. “Okay,” is all Johnny says, making no move to pull out any of the boxes from the bag. “Get out, I’ll let you know.”

“No, I want to be here for this,” Patrick protests, and Johnny shoots him the most unimpressed glare he’s ever managed, which is definitely, definitely saying something. “I’ll be outside the door,” Patrick promises.

*

Five minutes turns into ten, and ten turns into twelve, and Patrick read the boxes, he read all the boxes and they don’t take this long. He’s about to knock when the door swings open and he’s yanked inside. Johnny gestures violently at the sink, and Patrick steps over.

“Oh,” he says, and looks at the row of pregnancy tests, spread out like a rainbow across the side of the sink, each and every one saying the same thing, whether it’s via color or symbol. All of the boxes are neatly stacked to the side, so Patrick pulls one out randomly, just to double check. “Oh,” he repeats. “I mean. These are for women,” Patrick says. “Your hormones are different, so it could just show up as…” he trails off.

Johnny lets out a wheezy little breath, and Patrick’s heard this guy make a lot of sounds, but - well.

This sucks. Patrick’s fucking talking dick helped lead him to the promised land, and now, now it’s looking kind of ruined. Johnny’s going to leave him for something a little bit better and a whole lot saner, and Patrick’s ba - whatever, whatever that is, going on in there, is going to grow up in Winnipeg or something, and - his legs feel a little off, so he reclaims his seat on the toilet and tries not to cry.

“He got me with the dimples,” Johnny says, so conversationally that it takes Patrick a full ten seconds to catch up. Patrick is busy looking down at Sharpy’s bathroom mat, so he’s startled when Johnny presses a thumb into Patrick’s cheek.

Patrick raises his eyes. “What?” he asks helplessly.

“When we...talked,” Johnny says slowly. “He made a case, I guess you could call it, for uh,” Johnny gestures over at the bathroom sink.

They...talked. There’s a weird sound, and Patrick looks around a little wildly, but, yeah, that was him. He rests his back against the tank, his wrist brushing something a little prickly. “Oh,” he says, and tugs the flowers out of his pocket, thrusts them out at Johnny.

Johnny stares at him, the flowers. Him, again. “What, a guy can’t give flowers to his babyma--?” Patrick cuts himself off far, far, far too late, Johnny’s eyes are doing the black flinty thing they do when somebody’s cross-checked him or tripped him, and Andree’s going to tell him that Johnny’s “out” and Johnny will be sitting right there.

“Are those from Sharpy’s garden? Abby still uses weedkillers,” Johnny wrinkles his nose, reaches for some toilet paper, delicately tugs them out of Patrick’s hand, and sets them in the trash.

“Don’t go back to Winnipeg,” Patrick pleads in a rush.

“You’re freaking out on a toilet, what good are you?” Johnny sighs, rising from his crouch, hovering now.

“I’ll be so good,” Patrick promises, getting to his feet. “Two a.m. feedings, you just lay there. Diaper changes, ditto. I changed my sister’s diapers, they’re all fine. I’ll put in the Peapod orders.”

“You’ll put in the Peapod orders,” Johnny repeats, but that dumb farmer look is coming over his face, and it’s like Patrick can breathe again.

“Every,” Patrick says, steadily guiding Johnny back toward the bathroom wall, “Single,” he presses his lips to Johnny’s collarbone, “One.”

“You think I’m that easy?” Johnny asks.

“I think I’m gonna let you do me in Sharpy’s bathroom, ‘cause he deserves it, and then I think we’ll have to uh, and then. Uh. Those condos on Walton, I know you've been looking at them, and they're right by that big park, and maybe - "

Johnny pulls him in tight, hand clenching around the back of his neck.

There’s a pounding on the door then. “Are you defiling my bathroom?” Sharpy yells. 

"We're trying to have a fucking moment!" Johnny calls back. 

"I haven't missed either of you at all!" Sharpy says, but they're too busy to call him on the utter and total lie.

 


End file.
